Could Have Danced All Night

The wolf appointed to tear me apartis sure making slow work of it.This morning just one eye weeping,a single chip out of my back andthe usual maniacal wooden bird flutesin the brain. Listen to that feeble howllike having fangs is something to regret,like we shouldn’t give thanks for bloodthirst. Even my idiot neighbor backing outwithout looking could do a better job,even that leaning diseased tree or dreamof a palsied hand squeezing the throat butwe’ve been at this for years, lying exposedon the couch in the fat of the afternoon,staring down the moon among night blooms.What good’s a reluctant wolf anyway?The other wolves just get it drunkthen tie it to a post. Poor pup.Here’s my hand. Bite.

Credit:

Copyright @ 2014 by Dean Young. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on August 6, 2014.

About this Poem:

“I wrote this poem after being sick for a couple days and realizing I had yet again survived. So it's about the sort of cockiness one has about still being alive.”